My lips twitch against my will.No. Don’t smile. Don’t you dare smile.But it’s impossible. I’ve missed this—missed him. The thought sneaks in before I can stop it, and I shove it down just as fast.
This is not the time for nostalgia.
My phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Athena.
Keep walking. Courier will find you.
Sure, no problem, Athena.
Just as soon as I lose Ben.
I pick up my pace, weaving through the crowded streets, past tourists snapping photos and vendors waving masks in the air. I just need a clear path. A distraction.
Taking a corner, I’m stopped by an explosion of confetti in my face, temporarily blinding me. When my vision clears, I’m surrounded by a mob of overly enthusiastic Italian women fawning over me like I’m their long-lost daughter—and honestly, I’m scared.
“La sposa! La sposa!”
The women cheer and one of them puts a delicate white veil over my head and another shoves a bouquet into my hands. It doesn’t take a degree in Italian to figure out thatlasposasounds a lot likespouse—add the veil, the flowers, and the sheer enthusiasm radiating off this crowd, and it feels like I’m being swept into the Italian version of a shotgun wedding... probably with a side of cannoli.
I try to back away, but another woman in a “World’s Best Nonna” shirt—who has the biceps of a retired wrestler—clamps onto my shoulders and pushes me forward.
“Wait, I’m not—”
“Shh, tradition,” Wrestler Nonna insists, patting my cheek before beaming at the onlookers. “Che bellissima!”
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how it’s happening. All I know is that within seconds, I’m being thrust into the enthusiastic crowd. I have a death grip on my phone.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and see Ben trying to get to me, but the crowd is too thick and blocking his every advance. He angles his attention to me and mouths,Whatis happening?
I can’t help but laugh. It’s not funny. Well, it kind of is, but how in the world is the courier going to find me?
A deep, theatrical voice suddenly bellows over the noise: “Dovè la mia bellissima sposa?” And then in English, “Where is my beautiful bride?”
The crowd parts, and striding toward me—towering over the revelers like some kind of Venetian god—is a man in a massive wolf mask.
The fur-covered monstrosity is intricately detailed, a fusion of elegant craftmanship and straight-up horror movie. His deep crimson cloak flairs dramatically behind him, exposing a very well-toned chest.
The mask’s golden eyes lock onto mine, and for one horrified second, I think the guy might be some unhinged romantic lunatic about to whisk me away to his underground lair. Before I can back away, he sweeps me into an over-the-top dip, my veil fluttering dramatically as the crowd goes wild.
“Bacio! Bacio!”
I have no idea what they’re chanting, but the hungry look in the wolf’s eyes has me nervous. “Bacio?”
“Kiss,” he growls and delivers a wolfish smile that tells me how he got this role.
I choke.
“Bacio! Bacio!”
This was definitely not part of the plan.
I spot Ben pushing through the crowd, but a group of men in elaborate animal masks—foxes, ravens, and a particularly menacing boar—hold him back. His jaw tightens, his shoulders bunch, and the death glare he’s sending to the wolf-masked man gripping my waist practically crackles with rage.
A warmth spreads through me. Oh yeah. He looks very much like he’s jealous. I like it.
The wolf-man grins, winks, then twirls me straight into a swirling mass of identically veiled festival brides. Their masked partners sweep in, linking arms as we’re spun into a choreographed procession down the street. One of them—tall, steady—catches my wrist before I can break away.
Behind me, Ben is trying to push past the animal-masked men, his sharp exhale carrying all the way to me. I canfeelthe frustration rolling off him even from here.
